


Once is Enough

by Jominerva



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gift Fic, Johnlock Gift Exchange, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2064516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jominerva/pseuds/Jominerva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as the earth rises to meet the sun at every mountain crest, John reaches out for Sherlock and takes his hand in his own.</p><p>"Tell me it won't end like this," he says, blue eyes holding grey while he laces their fingers together. Sherlock lets out a shaky laugh and shakes his head.</p><p>"I wish I could."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once is Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shireteapot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireteapot/gifts).



> This is for tumblr user inkandsoul, AKA EJMulford. You probably don't remember that anon asking what you'd like to read in a Johnlock fic, but that was me. You said you like anything "from cute fluffy domestic!lock to life-and-death-situation-confessions-of-love". I tried to give you both. I hope you like it! I am a huge fan of your work and it's been an honour to write this for you. :)
> 
> Also, a quick shout-out to my lovely beta ravenscar. Thank you so much for your help with this.

They never explicitly say the words out loud. They never feel the need to. Out of the thousands of words in the English language available, no combination of any of them can adequately describe their relationship. Many people have tried, using labels such as best friends, partners, or even soul mates. Still, nothing is good enough for them. John can’t even describe it himself, the connection he has with Sherlock Holmes.

They began as flatmates, and have remained that to this very day. John uses his military pension to pay his half of the rent, and Sherlock uses whatever money he gets from cases and whatnot to pick up the rest of their expenses. In the mornings John makes breakfast that Sherlock rarely eats, save for the pieces of toast he occasionally steals from John's plate. They spend their days either working on cases or watching crap telly together, with Sherlock curled up in his chair and John sat at the desk behind him. Sometimes they sit on the couch together, sitting so close their thighs touch. John will sometimes put his arm on the back of the couch, not necessarily around Sherlock's shoulders, and Sherlock reclines further than usual when he does so. They never talk about it.

They soon became best friends, and that too is a label that has stuck. They spend nearly every waking moment in each other's company, and the occasional sleeping moments when they find themselves too tired after a case to lumber into their respective bedrooms. John will never say it out loud, but the nights he spends curled up on the couch with Sherlock's hair invading his open mouth are the nights when he sleeps the best, and he can't think of a better thing to wake up to than Sherlock's head resting on his shoulder, and Sherlock snoring softly in his ear.

John knows there is a third component to their relationship that goes far beyond any sort of friendship. They don’t have sex, and they never even sleep in the same bed, but he knows there is some very strong emotion lurking beneath every semi-flirtatious quip, every lingering touch, and every held stare.

John often finds himself wondering 'what if' he were to put a name to it. "What if" he were to actually say something to Sherlock? Would the mad man embrace the sentiment with open arms, or run off in fear of just how monumental those words are? Would Sherlock be afraid of the weight they carried? In the end John's trepidation keeps him from vocalizing any sentiment, and he continues to tell himself that he is fine leaving it unspoken. They never say the words out loud, simply because they don’t feel the need to. It is understood anyway, and it is all fine.

Still, when John finds himself standing on Southwark Bridge with Sherlock at his side and a group of angry drug smugglers closing in on them, with Sherlock so far unable to come up with an escape plan, he has never felt so much regret for anything in his life.

John tries to keep his breathing even while Sherlock taps away on his phone. John can tell by the slight tremble of his hands that Sherlock is worried, but aside from that he is completely stoic. His ability to appear so nonchalant is both admirable and frustrating.

"Feel free to come up with one of those brilliant ideas of yours at any time," John hears himself say, in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. His blood is singing in his ears and all he is aware of is how fast his heart is beating. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a group approaching them on the right. He grabs the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt, remembering the conversation they had just hours ago when he managed to talk Sherlock out of wearing his coat on this warm summer evening, and pulls. Sherlock follows John's lead and they turn, only to come face to face with another imposing group of ruffians with evil grins plastered on their faces, none of them without a weapon. John's fingers itch for his gun, but he knows pulling it would do more harm than good.

With both groups closing in John can feel his breath hitch in the back of his throat. John casts a sideways glance at Sherlock and can see his head is turned. He is looking behind them, and slightly down. John knows immediately what he is thinking, and before he opens his mouth to protest Sherlock moves to the edge. Their eyes meet and John is moving before he realises it.

Sherlock turns to lean against the barrier, placing his hands down to lean even further. John realises he is inspecting the water below, though he doubts Sherlock can see much with how dark it is. He can almost hear the gears in Sherlock's mind turning as he tries to calculate their chances of survival. Whatever he comes up with seems to be good enough, because then he climbs up to sit on the banister. John manages to pull himself up and very resolutely does not look down.

They each hold onto the barrier with grips so tight their knuckles are white, though John notices Sherlock's grip is loosening and he himself is struggling to maintain his balance and hold on.

Sherlock sits on his left, using his left hand to steady himself. The fingers of his right hand dance across the screen of his phone before he tosses the device to the ground behind him.

"What was that?"

"I texted my brother," Sherlock answers in an unwavering voice. "Told him to send a boat and the police... and an ambulance." Sherlock sucks in a breath and meets John's eye, and John can almost read every thought that passes through his brilliant mind. Still, nothing is said.

John can’t take it anymore. He wants, no _needs_ to hear the words spoken out loud. They've been in far too many life-or-death situations before this, they've had so many opportunities for adrenaline-fueled confessions, and John has never felt the urgent need to make his feelings known before now. There is no explanation. He just wants Sherlock to know. He knows he won't be able to live with himself if things go badly and he never gets this chance again. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and then begins to move. Just as the earth rises to meet the sun at every mountain crest, John reaches out for Sherlock and takes his hand in his own.

"Tell me it won't end like this," he says, blue eyes holding grey while he laces their fingers together. Sherlock lets out a shaky laugh and shakes his head.

"I wish I could." John smiles and leans in. Sherlock's eyes go wide for a moment, then his eyelids flutter closed and he surges forward. His lips are hard and unyielding, yet somehow soft and gentle. It only lasts a few seconds; they don't have time for anything longer. John presses his forehead against Sherlock's and speaks in a hoarse whisper.

"Thank you Sherlock, for everything."

"John, if we get through this, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If not, I'm glad for the time I've had with you so far."

And that is good enough for John. He glances over his shoulder and sees that several thugs have their guns raised as they run towards them. He gives Sherlock one final peck and holds his breath, then they jump.

 

* * *

 

John opens his eyes and finds himself in a hospital. The first thought to cross his mind is _thank god, I'm alive_. His second thought is of Sherlock. He chastises himself for not thinking of Sherlock first.

His gaze sweeps around the room searching for any sign of the consulting detective. Instead he sees Mycroft standing by the window, umbrella in hand, and his heart plummets.

"What happened to him?" he asks, trying and failing to keep the emotion from showing in his voice. Mycroft turns and looks at him, his expression as close to sympathy as it can get.

"He sprained an ankle upon entry into the water and has some bruising on his leg from hitting the water wrong, but other than that he's fine. He's been asking about you constantly though. I fear his mental health has suffered more than his physical." John breathes a sigh of relief and feels an enormous weight lift from his shoulders.  
"I want to see him."

"I sent him home an hour ago. He hasn't left this room since you were brought here." John shifts in his bed and winces. He's sure he is covered in bruises. He is sore all over, but other than that he feels alright.

"How long have I been out?"

"Only a few days." Mycroft must have seen the quizzical look on John's face, and answers his unasked question with his next statement. "You have a mild concussion, and you swallowed a decent amount of water, but that's it. It's a good thing you two were on Southwark instead of say... Itchen or the Tower Bridge. You might not have ended up so lucky flinging yourselves off of those bridges." John gives him a withering look, but the diplomat is unaffected by it and simply pulls out his mobile phone.

"I'll have someone fetch him for you. I know you two have a lot to... discuss." With that Mycroft saunters out of the room, leaving John alone with his thoughts. He thinks back on his last memories and finds that he is unable to recall anything that happened after he and Sherlock kissed. He remembers the way his heart had leapt in his chest the moment Sherlock closed the gap between their lips, and then ... nothing.

He can't remember what he'd said. He can't even remember if he'd said anything. All he can think about for the next hour is just how much he had let Sherlock know, and just how Sherlock had responded to whatever John had said.

His thoughts are disrupted by the click-click-click of a pair of crutches coming towards his room. John looks up the moment Sherlock enters the room, looking weary as he leans heavily on his crutches. Their eyes meet and Sherlock's face instantly becomes years younger. His eyes light up and he hobbles over to stand at Johns bedside.

"Hello," he says, and it's the most beautiful sound John has ever heard.

"Hi."

A moment of awkward silence passes before John clears his throat and attempts to speak again. "I think we should talk."

Sherlock's face instantly clouds over and John gets the impression he is about to be shut out.

"Do you ... What do you remember?"

"I remember kissing you."

Sherlock deflates, but only slightly, and quickly regains his composure.

"Is that all you remember?" he asked. His voice sounds quiet, subdued, almost afraid. John doesn't like the sound of it one bit.

"Unfortunately, yes it is." He tries to sit up more in bed, but the pain of moving prevents him from really doing anything and he allows himself to fall back against the over-stuffed pillows. "Maybe we can try kissing again to see if it jogs my memory." A slow smile spreads across Sherlock's face before he awkwardly shifts on his crutches to bend over John. John feels the lightest brush of Sherlock's lips against his and he smiles against the slight pressure.

"Tease," he breathes out, and then Sherlock's lips curve into a smile. John lifts a hand and buries it in the hair at Sherlock's crown and pulls him forward, prying Sherlock's lips open with his own. Just when Sherlock begins to press into the kiss, John gives a slight tug on his hair and pulls him back. Sherlock makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and John makes a mental note for later that Sherlock apparently likes having his hair pulled.

No more words are said, and John is once again pleased with the silence. It is a comfortable one, born out of familiarity and an understanding that now serves as a comforting blanket, shielding the two of them from any obstacles that may come their way.

It is another day before John is released from the hospital. He receives a clean bill of health, as well as a prescription for some pain medication. Sherlock hobbles beside him at the pharmacy, his ankle still in too much pain not to use the crutches, and picks up his own prescription. They return home to Baker Street and their life begins again.

They spend most of their recuperation period on the sofa with Sherlock's head resting in John's lap and his left foot propped up on the arm of the sofa. During the day they watch television and Sherlock rants about the predictable storylines and poor acting choices of soap opera stars, and John continues to love him for it. They sleep in the same bed now; Sherlock's, because it's closer to everything. In the mornings when John makes coffee Sherlock is right behind him. Usually he sits at the table and watches from afar. Other times Sherlock wraps his long arms around John's waist and rests his chin on his left shoulder, and watches from there.

Soon they are both fully healed and can return to working cases. When working Sherlock is as single-minded as ever, only focusing on The Work until the puzzle is solved. Then he returns to John, let's him feed him and force him to sleep. Sherlock will only sleep if John is right there with him. Sherlock will only eat if John has a bit as well. Aside from the occasional pecks that sometimes turn into more heated kisses and the increased frequency of casual touches, not much has changed between them.

John has never been so in love with anyone before.

The thought comes to mind several times to say the words out loud. He might as well, though he knows Sherlock already knows how he feels.

The thought crosses his mind one evening while they're watching a documentary on newly discovered constellations. Sherlock has remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire program, and when John asks him why he turns his head and raises an eyebrow at him.

"You're always getting on me about my inadequate knowledge of the solar system. I figure I could suffer through one documentary and gather enough information to shut you up." His voice sounds flat and annoyed but when Sherlock looks at John his eyes hold a playful mirth that John wishes he could bottle and sell, or perhaps keep to himself for the rest of his life and then some. Sherlock's smile is wide and genuine, and John can't help but smile back at the man to whom he has given his heart.

“God, I love you.”

The words slip out before John can stop himself. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and all time stops. John can’t do anything but stare back helplessly while he tries to wrap his mind around what he’s just done. He opens his mouth and tries to say something but then Sherlock is speaking and John's lips close.

"Kiss me, John." John does as he is told and presses his lips to Sherlock's briefly. When he pulls away there is a frown on Sherlock's face.

"No," he says softly, "I want you to _kiss me_." John stares into his eyes for a moment. He notices the shallow breathing and the dilated pupils. Oh.

John leans forward, seals his lips over Sherlock's. Sherlock turns and lies back, and John falls with him so that they are both horizontal on the couch. They kiss for what seems like hours, and John feels like he's got all the time in the world.

When he notices a slight pressure against his hip he pulls back and stands from the couch. Sherlock makes a noise he will undoubtedly later refuse to admit to making and sits up.

"I think this would be more ... comfortable in the bedroom." He holds out a hand that Sherlock very willingly takes and Sherlock stands. John turns off the television and they make their way to the bedroom, where John proceeds to kiss Sherlock in the most intimate of places, and Sherlock does his best to reciprocate. They fall asleep in a tangled mess of sheets and limbs with wide grins plastered on their faces.

The next morning John wakes to a naked Sherlock latched onto his side as if letting go would cause him to drift off into the cosmos, never to be seen again. John turns his head and presses his lips against the hair resting at Sherlock's crown. The detective stirs but doesn't wake, and John lets him be. It takes him a good minute to free himself from Sherlock's clutches, and when he does Sherlock makes a keening noise and his hands clutch at the sheets where John used to be.

"Shhh," John says, smoothing down Sherlock's hair. "Go back to sleep. I'm just going to make some coffee and I'll be right back." Sherlock makes a humming sound and falls prey to sleep once more. John doubts he was ever fully awake. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock while he pulls on a pair of pants, smiling and silently thanking any God that would listen for having allowed him to meet Sherlock.

The detective scoots closer to John's side of the bed and buries his face in the pillow John slept on. John watches him for a moment, and just as he turns towards the door he hears Sherlock’s voice.

“John."

“Yes?” he asks, turning back, halfway expecting Sherlock to actually be asleep, and just mumbling his name. Instead he finds that Sherlock has one eye open, and is staring up at John with a sleepy smile on his face.

“I meant to say earlier … I love you too.”

John chuckles to himself then turns and heads towards the kitchen while Sherlock closes his eyes once more and turns over in bed.


End file.
